


The World's Greatest Criminal Rat

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Len meets Mick's rat, Len starts off suspicious, M/M, Mick Rory Defense Squad, Mick's family loves him, but ends up loving him, so much fluff your teeth may rot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:29:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10066376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: Right now, Len is most annoyed by the fact that he leaves Mick alone for a few months (year) and his place at Mick's side is replaced, not by another partner, which he could understand and compete with (...and/or murder and hide the body somewhere), but by -this.It.Him.Therat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For kickingshoes' birthday - all the best wishes for an excellent year for you both!

Len really doesn't like time travel.

It's bad enough, dropping Mick off for less than two weeks and having him come back after months or worse of torture and brainwashing. It's even worse to wake up, bewildered and alone and lost, feeling like maybe a day had passed, only to fall in with the wrong crowd and have to get rescued by a ship of heroes who thought he'd been dead for a whole year.

But right now, Len is most annoyed by the fact that he leaves Mick alone for a few months (year) and his place at Mick's side is replaced, not by another partner, which he could understand and compete with (...and/or murder and hide the body somewhere), but by - _this_.

It.

Him.

The _rat_.

Len kneels down until he's very nearly eye-level with the table. 

"I don't know what he sees in you," he tells his rival.

The rat squeaks and turns its back on Len.

Guess the feeling's mutual.

You’d think Len coming back would be a cause for celebration, and it was, too, but then they’d come back into Mick’s bedroom – which was even _more_ stuffed than it’d been when Len’d last seen it, good for Mick for carrying on the stealing and hoarding tradition – and instead of staggering straight for the bed for a well-deserved rest after being rescued from the goddamn Legion of Doom, Mick decided it would be the perfect time to show off his brand new best friend.

For whom, as Len has discovered in the days following, Mick cooked special treats. Snuggled with. Gave compliments. Carted around in his goddamn pocket all the time. 

_Yelled at Len when he made noises that could disturb him._

Len does _not_ appreciate being replaced.

The rat - Mick calls him 'Ratigan', so Len's assuming it's a boy, though when it comes to Mick, he might just not care about gender at all - tries to scamper away.

"Oh, no you don't -" Len reaches out and scoops Ratigan up. 

Ratigan sits on Len's palms and wrinkles its nose at Len, squeaking. Quite pointedly, if Len had to say so himself.

Mick always did have a fondness for smartass creatures with prickly defenses. Probably how he put up with Len for so long, honestly.

"I didn't have any pets growing up," Len tells Ratigan as the rat noses around his cupped palms. "Never had the time or the energy to put in the effort to take care of one, and even the goldfish I won for Lisa for a buck at the local fair, my dad dumped out into the stream within a week ‘cause he was in a bad mood. Couldn't risk bringing home anything for fear it'd be used against me, and after a while, I forgot how to even want one."

He studies the rat, which has gone quiet and is staring back at Len.

"Still," Len says. He feels slightly silly talking to a rat like this, but after the Oculus and the Legion, talking helps him feel grounded in himself again. "Mick likes you. Mick likes you a _lot_. You were there for my partner when this ship full of assholes couldn't be bothered, and I respect that."

Len hadn't been inclined to, at first - so he's a bit possessive, give him a break; he doesn’t have many friends and he's not inclined to share the one he has - but he'd seen the rat fetch Mick his lighter when Mick's fingers twitched with the need, seen Mick smile when he fed the rat little crumbs from his plate, seen Mick put in hours trying to teach the orney little bastard a trick or two. The rat makes Mick happy, and that's what's important.

"If Mick loves you, that means you're part of this partnership whether I like it or not," Len says after a long moment of contemplation. "There must be _something_ to you. Must admit I don't think much of you at the moment, but I didn't think much of Lisa at first, either, all red and wailing and barely any teeth and all. Maybe you'll grow on me, too. Wanna make a truce, you and me?"

The rat bites him in the finger and scampers off.

"Wow, just like Lisa already," Len grumbles, and goes to get himself a band-aid.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rat shares their bed.

The rat _shares their bed_.

Len may be contemplating murder again.

Raticide.

Pest control?

Of course, it's not really Ratigan's fault, not _all_ of it. Len's just in an especially bad mood.

Len'd gotten into three fights today: one with Stein, who'd made a derogatory comment about Mick's mental health and all but implied they'd get more use out of his turkey sandwich, to which Len had told him that if it weren't for Mick, Stein would still be back in 2016, lugging around the body of his roofied partner (Stein hadn’t liked that); one with Sara, who'd apparently formed a habit of sending Mick into missions without explaining the goal or the reason, using him like a person grabbing a hammer when what they want to do is eat some soup and then blaming _Mick_ for her failure in leadership, to which Len had asked if her blood fury had come back and all of them were the targets of some long-simmering revenge plan to kill them all through sheer incompetence (she _really_ hadn’t liked that); and one with his old so-called ‘friends’ in the Legion, which had involved some rather nasty commentary about how Len screamed when he was being tortured and implications that his memories had been toyed with the same way Rip's had been, rendering Len a ticking time bomb, and Len hadn't even been able to ice any of the bastards (Len hadn’t liked that most of all). 

So now he was twitchy and angry, Sara and Stein were nursing grudges against him but felt too sorry for him to do anything about it - Len _hates_ pity; he’d rather they were trying something - and Mick was back to treating Len with kid gloves. 

And Ratigan is in. Their. Bed.

Len grits his teeth and stuffs his face down into the pillow, forcing his shoulders to relax in a mimicry of sleep. He will not fling Mick's rat across the room. He doesn't hurt animals: never has, never will. But oh, is it tempting...

Mick comes into the room after he finishes washing up. 

"Oh," he says, seeing Len 'sleeping'. "Guess today knocked him out." Mick flicks off the lights and pads over to the bed, crawling in beside Len. "Probably more the case that he didn't wanna talk about it."

Is Mick talking about Len to _Ratigan_?

"He always did take things people said about me personally," Mick whispers in the dark. "Don't tell him, but I always kinda liked that, you know? Even when he was just a little scrapper like you - bigger, obviously, but a small thing that thought he was big and in charge, just like you. He always thought I was aces."

Because you _are_ , Len thinks sulkily.

"The others on board don't get that, and I guess I haven't been giving 'em much reason to think much of me -"

Their fault, not Mick's. _Obviously_. If you know how to handle him, Mick’s the best partner a man can have.

"- but honestly, it's nice to have someone in my corner again. When I thought he was gone, and that no one'd be in my corner ever again..." Mick's voice breaks.

Ratigan squeaks.

Mick chuckles, his voice a little thick with emotion but lightening. "Yeah, yeah, you were here," he says. "I'm not forgetting. You always liked me best, right from the start. Don't think I don't remember you biting Ray for me."

A small smacking sound, like a kiss on fur. 

"Night, Ratigan."

Len waits until Mick's breathing has evened out, long and low and deep, with a touch of a snore at the end, before he wiggles around in the bed. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, so he can make out the rat curled up protectively on Mick's chest, right where the blanket ends. Ratigan blinks at Len, it's eyes reflective in the dark.

Len reaches out a single finger and runs it down Ratigan's slinky fur, taking care to go the right way.

"Thanks for taking care of him for me," he whispers.

The rat curls back up, but he doesn't nip at Len first.

Maybe he's not so bad.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You stole my miniature wrench; I need it back,” Ray says.

“No,” Len says, and turns another page of his book.

“No offense, Snart, but I actually need it for something –”

“I didn’t steal it,” Len drawls, cutting him off. “You immediately pegging me for it, that’s just bias talking.”

“You’re the only thief on board.”

“That’s not what I heard about your exploits,” Len shoots back.

“Only _professional_ thief.”

“Other than Mick.”

“Mick didn’t steal my wrench,” Ray scoffs. “He wouldn’t have any use for it.”

“And I do?” Len says, reaching out for his pencil and marking down another line on the little piece of paper he’s been carrying around. Another insult against Mick that will need to be paid back – Ray’s really stacking them up. 

Luckily, Len’s plans for him are already well in progress.

“Well, no,” Ray says, bright expression fading into a frown. “I guess not. But you just steal stuff, don’t you?”

“I steal _valuable_ stuff. You think I got anywhere I plan to sell your – what was it again?”

“Miniature wrench. I use to fix the joints on my suit.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t steal it,” Len turns another page in his book. “Maybe you misplaced it.”

“I didn’t misplace it! I know exactly where I put it!”

“Was that before or after the Waverider went through all those bumps?” Len asks innocently.

“Huh,” Ray says. “Good point.” And then he turns and leaves, without even apologizing for his error or his accusation. An accusation which, back in the real world, could have cratered an ex-con’s life even if he had reformed – loss of a job, housing, health insurance, respect and trust built up over time...

Len shakes his head. For shame. 

And he _left_ Mick with these privileged assholes. 

Never again.

“Next time I’m not covering for you,” he warns.

Ratigan pokes his head up from under the desk, where he’s been storing his treasures, including, yes, a miniature wrench that he'd proudly dragged in between his jaws not half an hour earlier. He squeaks.

“You should steal the whole suit next time,” Len advises.

Ratigan flicks his tail and gives a whole body shudder.

Len snickers and turns another page. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want it either. At least a miniature wrench could be useful for precision work. Is it for the engine Mick’s taking apart in his room?”

Ratigan squeaks again.

“Thought so,” Len says, amusing himself with imagining that Ratigan can understand him. “Anyway, if you want to hear something nice, just wait a few minutes.”

Ratigan’s nose twitches.

Len turns another page in his book.

The mental countdown clock in his head hits zero.

“ _Oh my god!_ ”

Len can hear Ray’s yelping all the way from here.

“That’ll show him, treating Mick like that,” Len says, just a little savagely. “And there’ll be more of that to come if they don't shape up about it, too.”

Ratigan squeaks.

It sounds approving.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Wait, what? No!" Len exclaims.

"I need you to take him," Mick says. "I only got enough room in this stupid outfit to carry my heat gun."

Len opens his mouth to protest that there was indeed enough room in the pocket for the heat gun and a rat, but the look in Mick's eyes stops him.

A rat and the heat-gun in the same pocket - a flailing tail or paw could activate the trigger, and then there would be roast rat and a heartbroken Mick. 

Mick isn't emotionally stable enough to lose any more family right now, and that was all more or less Len's fault.

"Okay, _fine_ ," Len says, and accepts Ratigan. His job does not require his gun, so Ratigan should be fine in his pocket.

"Thanks, buddy," Mick says gratefully, and heads out.

Len takes a minute to watch. Say what you will about the stupidity of the clothing in Renaissance Venice, Len could really get behind (literally) the concept of Mick in those _extremely_ tight tights. Hose. Whatever. 

"Guess it's you and me," he tells Ratigan. "Don't bite or get the plague."

Ratigan squeaks.

"I'm taking that as an okay."

They go out. Len's job is fairly minimal - mostly watching the perimeter - because the crew's still worried about him, which he dislikes immensely. 

"Supposedly it's because they've got a system that 'works' for them," he tells Ratigan disdainfully. "From what I've seen, the 'system' is to throw everything they've got at the target and hope for the best. Like I couldn't figure that out. They're just worried because they think I'm a plant."

Ratigan squeaks understandingly.

"Yeah. They're _painfully_ amateur, and they keep thinking they're professionals."

Squeak, squeak.

"Eobard wasn't wrong about them being idiots – and I don’t agree with that bastard lightly."

Squeak. Wiggle.

Wiggle?

Len looks down. Ratigan is leaning out of his pocket and trying to grab something from a nearby rich man's pocket, little rat nose twitching.

"No, _no_ ," Len says, catching him before the rat tips entirely out of the pocket and falls out to the ground. "That ain't how you pick a pocket. Lemme show you - it's all about _misdirection_ – well, that and light fingers -"

An hour later, Len is bumping into gentlemen and offering to show them a game of Cats' Cradle, both hands clearly visible at all times, while Ratigan swipes coins and jewelry from their pockets.

"Well done," he tells Ratigan when he's forced to drop the game in order to chase after the obviously historically-inaccurate time pirate recruited by the Legion. "Nice haul."

Ratigan squeaks proudly.

"You want to trade your share in for treats or add them to your stash?"

Ratigan contemplates this.

"How about half and half?"

Ratigan squeaks.

"Half and half it is - I'll fix you up as soon as we get back on board - damn this guy, where the hell does he think he's going?"

"Arsenal, probably," a nearby man says, watching the fleeing man.

"Shit," Len says, and speeds up despite the growing ache in his knees. If arsenal means what he thinks it means, he _definitely_ wants to get there first. 

He's getting too old and tired for this hero shit.

He says as much to Ratigan, who squeaks in agreement.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We’re going home,” Len says, putting his hands down.

“No, we’re not,” Mick says.

“Yes, we _are_ ,” Len says. “They’re treating you like shit, you don’t care about this so-called ‘mission’ –”

“Until we can prove your memories are untampered with –”

“I’ll take my chances with Central City.”

“Len –” Mick sounds long-suffering, like Len’s being ridiculous or something. 

“ _Mick_.”

“The crew isn’t _that_ bad.”

“Yes, they are.”

Mick arches an eyebrow at him. “You going to bash me over the head and drag me out if I don’t agree?” he asks, sounding _amused_ , of all things. 

“No,” Len says evenly. “We agreed we’d be both making decision going forward.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Mick says.

“I’m not. But you’ve been outvoted.”

Mick blinks and puts his drink down, turning to look at Len.

Len just meets his gaze.

“Len,” Mick says. “You can’t _outvote_ me.”

“And why not?” Len says haughtily, hiding a smile. Mick’s totally fallen for his bait.

“There’s only two of us. Neither can outvote the other.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Len says. “You vote to stay, I vote to go, and –” He pulls his hand out of his pocket.

Ratigan squeaks.

“– Ratigan here _also_ votes to go. Therefore, by a count of two votes to one, we win.”

Mick’s gaping.

Ratigan sits up in Len’s palm and squeaks again.

Somehow, that’s the thing that makes Mick start laughing. Big, deep belly laughs, shaking all through his shoulders, rocking back and forth type laughter, eyes all crinkled up in honest to god mirth.

Len’s shoulders relax a bit just seeing it. It’s been too long since he’s seen Mick laugh, _properly_ laugh, and without the edge of hysteria that’s been there whenever Mick thinks too long about the time period when he thought Len was dead.

“I knew you’d get along,” Mick finally manages to say in between laughs. “I didn’t think you’d _gang up_ on me.”

“He clearly doesn’t know us at all,” Len tells Ratigan sadly.

Ratigan shakes his head mournfully and squeaks in agreement.

Smart rat.

“So I’ve packed up all of my stuff,” Len says – it was easy, he’d never really unpacked from when they loaded up all his stuff to give his room to Amaya, much to their mutual awkwardness – “and Ratigan here has packed up all of his –”

“Ratigan has stuff? Since when?”

“Of course Ratigan has stuff,” Len says. “Spoils of war, Mick.”

“…you’ve been teaching my rat to steal.”

Len gives Mick a _look_.

“Okay,” Mick concedes. “ _I_ taught my rat to steal. He’s been making a stash?”

“Pretty decent one, even. Now let’s get your stuff packed up and we’ll go home. I’ve had enough.”

“And all it took was one death and resurrection,” Mick tells Ratigan. “You see what I have to deal with?”

“If it makes you feel better, I won’t be doing that again anytime soon,” Len says grumpily.

Mick looks up at Len and his eyes are shining and just a little wet. “You’d better not,” he says, his voice thick with unspoken emotions again. “You’d _better_ not, Lenny.”

Len swallows. Takes a step forward, wanting to say something, do something, something to make Mick finally believe, _really_ believe, that he’s back – nothing’s worked so far, but surely there’s something – some gesture –

Ratigan squeaks.

Len stops moving. “No,” he says, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your rat just ruined the moment.”

“Aww,” Mick says. “He didn’t _mean_ to.”

“Mick,” Len says. “He’s _your_ rat. He’s a little troll and he probably did it on purpose. Just accept this.”

“You’re taking this too personally.”

“Yeah, yeah. Less talking, more packing.”

“I –”

“ _Outvoted_ , Mick. It’s official. Get packing.”

Mick smiles. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll –”

“Hey, you two!” Jax calls from the hallway. “We’ve found something! Get out here!”

Mick looks back at Len.

“Fine,” Len grumbles. “One more mission. _Then_ we go home.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Mick says.

“I’m near the bed, does that count?” Len asks, distracted. He’s technically near the bed – he hadn’t been able to move that far away from it on his own power, kept getting dizzy every time he got up, so he’d just slid down the side and was still leaning back against the bed.

He's _totally_ bed-adjacent. That's close enough.

“No, it doesn’t,” Mick says, but he comes over anyway. “What’re you doing?”

“Building a model,” Len replies. “Obviously.”

Mick picks up the boxes dubiously. “Are these…rodent cages? And hamster cages?”

“It’s a bunch of rodent _mazes_ ,” Len corrects. “See, the various pipes and boxes and stuff can all be connected together to form, like, a bigger cage. With mazes and shit for the rat to run through.”

“Okay,” Mick says slowly. “And…why are you building this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Given that you claim to barely tolerate Ratigan, it’s a bit weird.”

“It’s not for _Ratigan_.”

“We have _another_ rat?”

“No!” Len says. “I mean, it _is_ for Ratigan, but it’s not _for_ Ratigan, like a gift or anything like that. It's work. Business. You know.”

Mick looks dubiously at the growing cage. “Uh-huh. Is the fever you got from handling the spear coming back?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Len groans. “I _should_ be getting back to _work_ now that we’ve confirmed that there’s no memory manipulation –”

“The Legion beat you so bad you broke two ribs and sprained your ankle,” Mick says, unimpressed. “Plus you got a 104 degree fever from the aftereffects of using the spear to fix the timeline because it interacted badly with the Oculus remnants imbedded in your system. You’re staying in bed till I say you can get up.”

“Yes, boss,” Len says. “Now pass me that corner piece, will you?”

Mick passes him the piece. 

Len screws it into place, then leans over to study the blueprints he’s working off of.

“That doesn’t look like the instructions that came with the box,” Mick says.

“Obviously it’s not,” Len says. “I’ve got six different boxes here.”

“…how long have you been working on this?”

“Couple of hours. But just wait, you’ll see. Once you see what it is, you’ll see that it’s _genius_.”

“What is it, exactly?”

“You’ll see in a second, lemme just put in the last piece – ah-ha! What do you think?” he asks, proudly waving his hand over his creation.

Mick stares for a long moment. “It’s a rodent cage,” he finally says. “Or maze. Whatever.”

“It’s not _just_ a rodent maze,” Len says triumphantly, reaching out to pick Ratigan up from his perch on the bed behind Len's head and put him near the entrance. “It’s a rodent maze model of Central City First National Bank. Ratigan’s gonna run through it a couple of times until I see the most efficient ways in and out of the place – I even added in little levers for him to operate all the doors, for added realism and, of course, to keep him from getting claustrophobic -”

“That’s it,” Mick says. “You’re going to back to bed now.”

With that, he scoops Len up from where he’d been sitting and dumps him back on the bed.

“But my plans –”

“I told you, _no working_ till you feel better.”

Len tries to scowl, but he’s pretty sure it’s coming across as a pout if he’s reading Mick’s softening face and slight smirk right.

“I’ll move the maze to the desk,” Mick says. “How about that? You can watch Ratigan run through the very nice maze you built him from the comfort of your bed.”

“…fine,” Len says. “But only because I wanna be ready to plan out that job when I’m better.”

“Sure thing, Len,” Mick says, shaking his head. “Sure thing.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Okay, so Mick, you’re positioned here,” Len points to the map.

“Sure, boss,” Mick replies. The effect of compliance is somewhat ruined by the fond grin he can’t seem to get off his face, like watching Len go back to what he’s good at is making Mick so proud he might burst.

Len would be less annoyed by it if Mick didn’t get the same damn look on his face every time Ratigan did a trick correctly.

The ‘hands in the air, this is a stick-up’ trick is pretty cool, though. 

"I'll be positioned here," Len continues. "And Ratigan will come in through this vent -"

"Wait," Mick says, eyebrows arching. "Ratigan's got a job?"

"Sure," Len says. "He's agreed to accept a starter's cut for now, with the option of moving up to more later."

"What does Ratigan need with a cut of the profits?" Mick argues, though his growing grin shows he's not serious.

"He's got a stash he likes to give you presents from," Len says. "The rest he'll take in treats."

"Right," Mick says. “Of course.”

Len eyes him. “You sound doubtful.”

Mick widens his eyes. “Boss, you know I’d never doubt you –”

“Oh, god, what’s the Flash done to the timeline now?!”

“That was _sarcasm_.”

“It had better be.”

“ _Anyway_ – it’s just that I thought this was a Rogues job. Your new supervillain team-up group. Trial run, remember?”

“Well, yes,” Len says, scowling. “That’s why we’re using Scudder - god, I hate that guy, but that's a damn useful skillset he got - at the north point –”

“Ratigan’s not a Rogue, Len,” Mick points out.

Len pauses and considers this.

Mick’s smile slowly fades and his eyebrows arch. “It was a joke,” he says hastily. “Don’t – whatever you’re thinking. Don’t. Uh-uh. _No_.”

“You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

“No, but I know your crazy shit face.”

“It’s not crazy at all –”

“That’s even _worse_ when you don’t realize the crazy.”

“Don’t be absurd, Mick,” Len says dismissively. “It’s simple enough. We just need Cisco to give Ratigan a supervillain moniker.”

“…we do?”

“Sure, then he’ll be a Rogue.”

“A supervillain rat.”

“He’s more of a sidekick,” Len allows.

Mick grins. “Okay,” he says. “This is the sort of crazy I can get behind. Let’s do this.”

A “kidnapped” Cisco is happy to deviate from his date with Lisa to dub Ratigan the Rogue-Rat and fiddle with some spare parts Mick had lying around until he’d created a rat-sized motorcycle for Ratigan to zoom around on, totally gratis.

“I read a lot of Beverly Cleary as a kid,” he confesses. “You sure you don’t want to call him Ralph?”

“Ralph was a _mouse_ ,” Mick growls.

“Right! Sorry…say, have you made any NIMH jokes?”

“If I remember the movie correctly,” Len drawls, “NIMH was a facility where the rats were kept in small cages without any hope of escape and were experimented on, despite their increased intelligence and strength until they were rescued. You really want to go into that, Mr. Secret Private Prison Man?”

“You’re gonna have to stop ragging on us for that at some point.”

“No, he isn’t,” Mick puts in. “Book was better anyway.”

“…yeah, I’m with Cold on this one. Movie was awesome. Besides, we didn’t experiment on –”

“Uh-huh. That morgue of yours was pretty interesting. What was it your Dr. Wells used it for again?”

“…never mind. Oh god! _We’re_ NIMH?! Not, like, National Institute of Mental Health, but like, _evil_ NIMH?” 

“No,” Len says. “ARGUS is NIMH, obviously. You’re wannabes.”

“Does Ratigan like trash?” Lisa asks, chin on her hands as she watches Ratigan examine the miniature motorcycle. “Like Templeton?”

“Charlotte’s Web Templeton?”

“That’s the one.”

“You know, if we _did_ include mice, we could have Ratigan hunt down child-killing witches,” Cisco suggests, grinning. “You know, like Roald Dahl’s book.”

Mick stares at Cisco for a long moment, then says, deadpan, “So, you mean child-killing witches exist?”

“Say, you can travel to other universes –” Len starts.

“Oh, _hell_ no! I've already introduced you to Cynthia; you want to go hunting for child-killing witches, you go with your girlfriend, not your boyfriend!”

“I think calling witches child-killers is rude to witches,” Lisa says. “It’s a perfectly decent religion, you know.”

“But in the _book_ –”

The two head off, bickering happily.

“Ugh,” Len says. “ _Emotions_.”

“Tell me about it,” Mick grunts. “Cool bike, though.”

“Rogue-Rat,” Len says thoughtfully. “He needs a costume.”

“He does _not_.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barry’s phone buzzes with a text.

He doesn’t move, though his hand does clench down slightly harder on the bowl of popcorn.

“You planning on checking that?” Iris asks from where she’s curled up by his side. They’d seen this movie a dozen times, but hadn’t quite gotten to the making out point, too comfortable and full from dinner to do more than just take a moment to relax and ignore the crazy.

“No,” Barry says, oddly clipped.

“O- _kay_ ,” Iris says, drawing out the word. “And the reason for this is?”

Barry shuts his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

“Barry,” Iris says. “I’m a reporter, and you’ve known me since I was a kid. Question: is there _ever_ a time when I don’t want to know?”

Barry groans and pulls out his phone, handing it to Iris. “I have it set for a special alert if it’s from Cisco or Caitlin,” he says with a sigh. “And another noise if it’s from one of the detectives or Joe or Captain Singh. If it goes straight to vibrate, though, that means it’s from – _them_.”

“Them?” Iris says skeptically, flipping open Barry’s cell.

There’s a picture of a rat sitting proudly on top of –

“Is that a _Rembrandt_?”

“A _stolen_ Rembrandt,” Barry says through gritted teeth. 

“‘Rat Thief Strikes Again: Who Can Stop Him?’” Iris reads the text beneath the picture. “What in the – wait.” She scrolls up. “There are more of these?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Awwwww, here he’s fast asleep in a pile of diamonds,” Iris says.

“Awww?” Barry says suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘awwww’? That sounded like a ‘so cute’ type of ‘awwwww’, Iris. It’s not cute.”

“‘RogueRat: The Flash’s Newest Nemesis,’” Iris read. “‘Speedster Beaten in Rat-Race.’ ‘Museum Security ‘Rat-ed’ Very Poor by Local Supervillains.’ Barry, are these from _Captain Cold_?”

“How’d you guess, the terrible puns?”

“No, the fact that he sent you a _selfie_ with him, Heatwave and the rat!”

“Oh, yeah, that one,” Barry says. “It doesn’t help; there’s no stolen property in that picture. The only pictures with the stolen stuff is with only the rat.”

“Oh my god,” Iris says. “He’s wearing a _bowtie_ in this one.”

“Iris. This isn’t _cute_.”

“A _bowtie_.”

“That was for the heist they pulled at the annual film awards gala…”

“He has a parka!” Iris shrieks. “Rat-parka! Oh my god! My life is complete!”

Barry buries his face in his hands. “ _Iris_.”

“And the caption says, ‘Chip Off the Old Block’, oh man, this is _amazing_.”

“Give me the phone back.”

“Barry, no! This is giving me life – oh. My. _God_.”

“What did you find now?”

“He has a _supervillain outfit_.”

“The little domino mask and leather jacket combo?”

“It has a little R on it,” Iris says, hand pressed to her lips. “It’s in the _Team Rocket_ font. Barry. _Barry_. How did you not tell me about this. This is _everything_.”

“He’s not a real Rogue!” Barry protests. “I refuse to have a rat be one of my supervillain nemeses – Iris! What are you typing?”

“Nothing!”

“Gimme!”

Some light-hearted wrestling later, Barry is gaping at his phone while Iris attempts to muffle her laughter in a pillow.

Then, very slowly, he reads, “‘Prepare for trouble/and make it double,  
to steal things for our gratification/and protect Central City from inflation,  
to be supervillains with the greatest style/and defeat the Flash with our wiles,  
Captain Cold!/Heatwave!  
The Rogues face off against the speed of light,  
stick ‘em up now or prepare to fight,  
RogueRat! That’s right!’”

Iris howls with laughter.

“I can’t believe you wrote this. Or that you sent this _to my villains_.”

The phone buzzes.

“I can’t believe they _like it_.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Len adjusts the magnet a little bit, then takes a step back, studying his work.

“What are you doing?” Lisa asks, wandering in through the door. 

“Putting something up on the fridge, obviously,” Len says. 

“On the fridge?” Lisa asks. “You haven’t done that since I was a kid – lemme see – wait, is this a newspaper article? Lenny. Don’t tell me you’ve started collecting articles about yourself as a supervillain. That’s _my_ job.”

“I know, I know, the scrapbook project,” Len says, smirking. “I’d better get draft one of that for Hannukah, s’all I’m saying. But I’d suggest you read the article.”

“Hide and Squeak: RogueRat Branches Out Into Kidnapping – Lenny, what _is_ this?”

“Keep reading.”

“Our city has recently been infested with a rat problem, and not even the Flash can serve as pest control,” Lisa reads, her voice going steadily more incredulous as she goes on. “‘Only a real rat could've stolen this big cheese –’ Lenny, you’ve got to be kidding me. ‘We believe the perpetrators snuck in, quiet as a mouse – they were chased away by the Flash in an escape that was a real squeaker –”

Len is laughing too hard to stand up straight.

“This scheme was clearly orchestrated by the nefarious mouseketeer, Ratigan the RogueRat – possibly communicating with his human allies in _mouse code_ – the victim of the kidnapping was a certain McSnurtle the Turtle – although threats were made involving the phrase ‘turtle soup’ and several images of McSnurtle precariously located in a steel cook-pot were produced, the victim was eventually recovered safely after a ransom made up entirely of cheese was delivered by the Flash to Central City Park…Lenny. _Lenny_. Tell me you didn't.”

“It’s my new favorite thing ever,” Len says, beaming.

“Tell me you didn’t kidnap the Flash’s pet turtle, Lenny.”

“If you don’t want me to tell you, I won’t. Did you get to the bit at the bottom?”

“The bit at the – ‘Citizens of Central City have greeted their super-rat-villain with open arms, saying that it’s better than the Flash going up against yet another speedster villain. The Flash responded only by saying ‘shut UP’ repeatedly, which we can only take to be agreement. This reporter will be investigating for more details.”

“Pulitzer quality, I’d say,” Len says happily.

“He hasn’t stopped talking about it all week,” Mick says, walking in with Ratigan in his familiar perch on his shoulder. “All _week_ , Lisa.”

“Don’t you talk,” Lisa says. “Your name’s in here, too!”

“I couldn’t let them go turtle-napping by _themselves_.”

“You’re both disgraces to supervillainy.”

“All three of us,” Mick says, pointing to Ratigan.

Ratigan takes that as a cue to high-five Mick's finger.

Lisa rolls her eyes. “Cute,” she says, crossing her arms and pretending that her lips aren’t twitching. “Very cute.”

“Wait till you see the theme song,” Len drawls. 

“ _Theme song_?!”

“It’s on youtube. Cisco made it.”

Lisa opens her mouth to protest, then pauses. “Is Cisco – singing?”

“Barry, too,” Len says in satisfaction. He still has no idea how Cisco convinced Barry to do that. “Iris plays Ratigan. She has mouse ears.”

“…theme song it is, then.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ratigan scampers down the stairs, note tied to his back.

He goes to the living room, where Mick is working on an engine – less working and more smacking it with a wrench at the moment – and squeaks loudly to get his attention.

Mick looks down. His face is red with anger and his brows are drawn down. He reaches down to grab the note with a gruff, “Thanks, Ratigan.”

Then he opens the note.

“ _I’m_ overreacting?!” he roars, leaping to his feet. Ratigan dashes to safety under the couch. “Why that miserable little – it’s not _overreacting_ , it’s a perfectly reasonable – oh, who the hell am I kidding, that asshole wouldn’t know _reasonable_ if it hit him in the face with a tire iron –”

Mick reaches out and grabs a piece of paper, starting to scribble furiously on it. 

Ratigan creeps out from under the couch and patiently waits for Mick to finish, fold up the piece of paper, and tuck it into the harness Ratigan wears, this one shaped like a little purple sweater with a white daisy on the back where the note gets tucked in.

“You take it to the idiot upstairs,” Mick tells Ratigan, like there’s anyone _else_ the note could be destined for.

Ratigan darts over to the stairs, climbing into the ingenious little rat-elevator that they’d constructed for him when they’d still been talking, triggering the mechanism with a well-placed headbutt and waiting patiently, chittering a little to himself, as it carried him up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, he scurries over to the room where Len has barricaded himself in, but for the hole created at the bottom.

Len is wrapped up in a blanket and his face is remote and expressionless, but his hands are clenched so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. He’s playing music with a heavy, simple beat on repeat, likely to drown out the sounds of his partner downstairs.

The plans he had been working on had been crumpled up and thrown into the corner again.

Ratigan doesn’t bother squeaking for attention – he’ll never be heard over the music – and clambers up the side of the bedspread instead.

Len’s eyes catch on Ratigan just as he’s struggling with the last bit of bed to climb and Len reaches forward to scoop him up the rest of the way. “What’ve you got for me?” he asks, pulling out the note and putting Ratigan down to unfold it.

Probably for the best, since his next action is for both fists to clench. “ _Unreasonable_?” he snarls. “ _I’m_ being unreasonable?!”

He leaps out of the bed and throws open the door, storming downstairs.

Ratigan follows slowly.

Their argument can be heard only partially from the top of the stairs –

“ – _you_ started the whole goddamn be-a-hero bullshit –”

“– saved _you_ , not _them_! You act like I did it for _fun_ or something –”

“– out risking your _life_ again like you don’t care that you just got it _back_ –”

“– a perfectly _rational_ risk, a heist just like we _used_ to do, or have you forgotten how to do it with your _brand new friends_ –”

“– goddamn _missed you_ , you sonofabitch –”

“– think I wouldn’t have missed you _just as much_? Why do you think I _did it_ –”

By the time Ratigan has made it all the way down the stairs, they’ve stopped yelling and started kissing again.

About time.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mick’s just eating his goddamn breakfast.

Sure, it’s 2 in the afternoon, but they were up late. 

Well, Len was up even later, doing _something_ in the other room; Mick has no idea what, but there were audible cackles of glee. He knows better than to bother Len when that's happening.

He’ll find out eventually. He’s resigned himself to it.

Of course, if Len doesn’t come out for breakfast soon, Mick’s going to go drag him out.

Naturally, just when Mick’s entertaining himself with daydreams of doing just that – he’s gotten to like dragging Len around, it made him feel more secure that Len was right where he belonged, by Mick’s side – that’s when Len comes out of the bedroom and walks right up behind Mick.

Mick starts to turn, only for Len to say, “Don’t. Look ahead.”

Mick’s not one to question Len’s orders, especially when they come in such a serious tone of voice.

Serious, not totally neutral – totally neural meant Len was pissed off beyond belief – but serious could be anything at all. All it means is that Len’s thinking real hard on something.

Len doesn’t do anything, though, just stands there.

After a minute, Mick starts to eat again.

Apparently, that’s what Len was waiting for.

He starts –

Humming?

A second later, Mick notices something at the very top of his vision, so he glances up.

Then his jaw drops.

Ratigan is dressed in – it was mostly black wrappings, all over, even his little feet, but excluding his tail, and a matching black cowl covering his face except for his – wait.

He' s dressed as a _ninja_.

He’s also descending from above, balanced precariously on a few strings that were attached to a pair of chopsticks Len was holding like a v, not unlike the strings you would find on a marionette.

And Len was lowering Ratigan slowly towards Mick’s food, humming what Mick abruptly realizes is the _Mission Impossible theme_.

Mick cracks up.

Full on just loses it, buries his head into his hands and howls. It’s amazing. It’s perfect.

_Ninja rat._

Ratigan makes it down to the food and scarfs up a few bites before sitting up and squeaking self-importantly.

Mick at this point is laughing so hard that his chest is hurting, but he manages to blink away some of the tears starting to stream down his cheeks long enough to see –

“You made him _nun-chucks_ out of _matches_?!” he chokes out.

“Beware the ninja,” Len intones ominously. “And his flaming sticks of doom!”

Mick falls off his chair.

Len and Ratigan high-five. 

Mick has to hide his face in his hands, not just because he’s laughing so hard, but because – 

They _get along_. Not just to appease him, but because they actually like each other. They’re _family_.

He can’t imagine anything better.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Don’t you dare,” Mick says, his eyes glued to the screen.

Len pauses, the broccoli he’d been palming off to Ratigan still in his hand. “Dare…what?”

“The broccoli’s for _you_.”

“I’m _sharing_ ,” Len says primly. “You’re always telling me to share more.”

“Eat your goddamn vegetables before you get scurvy.”

“You don’t get scurvy anymore; they inject vitamins in the food or something.”

“Eat your damn veggies,” Mick says, offering Ratigan a raspberry.

“You lousy hypocrite.”

“I’ve already eaten all of mine.”

“Ratigan, come save me,” Len instructs.

Ratigan jumps into Len’s plate, squeaking and skittering around.

“Oh, shucks,” Len says, not sounding even a little sorry. “It’s all been touched by rat. Unsanitary. Can’t eat it.”

“I have more in the kitchen,” Mick says. “Nice try.”

“Damn.”

“Good rescue, though.” Len gives Ratigan a little high five, which Ratigan returns. 

“No kidding.”

They both turn back to the TV, where the lions are forming Voltron again.

A second later, they both very slowly turned to look at each other.

“Say…” Len says. “Do you think…”

“I saw a post about medieval-style mouse armor just the other day,” Mick offers.

“Cisco could make it.”

“But what _color_ would Ratigan be? Black?”

“No, no, it’s gotta be connected to personality, don’t it?”

“I dunno, I _guess_. Only one rat, though. Can’t make Voltron out of one rat.”

“Could probably convince Iris to lend McSnurtle for the cause. Or just kidnap him again.”

“You _would_.”

“You bet I would. The turtle? Definitely Hunk.”

“I thought you said it had to be based on _personality_. You don’t know the turtle’s personality.”

“It’s _Barry’s_ turtle.”

“Iris’ turtle, too.”

“Huh, point.”

“Do turtles even _have_ personality?”

“Well, they’re no rats.”

“True.”

“Our rat is clearly the superior pet.”

“Ah-hah!” Mick says, pointing at Len. “You admit he’s our rat!”

Len sniffs. “Obviously he’s _our_ rat. I bought myself a right to everything you own when I married you.”

Mick crosses his arms. “Till death do us part, Lenny.”

“…I’m alive _now_.”

“It doesn’t say ‘applicable when both parties are alive’. It says ‘ _until_ death’. Implies a firm end point at death.”

“No way. It says ‘as long as you both shall live’, too – and you were still alive.”

“Widowers remarry. That get invalidated for bigamy if there’s a resurrection?”

“You know, I ain’t sure about that. Gimme a second…”

There’s a pause.

“I have no idea,” Barry’s voice sounds tinny with the cell phone on speakerphone. “How would I know? Also, you really need to stop calling me.”

“You knew Sara from before we did,” Len points out. “Aren’t there half a dozen resurrect-ees over in Starling?”

“ _Star City_ , not Starling. They changed it, remember? And…maybe. I’ll send Oliver an email. But seriously. Stop calling me. You’re supervillains.”

“Who said we were calling you?” Len says. “Put Iris on the line.”

“That’s _not better_!”

“Uh-huh. She there?”

“Well, yes, she’s here –” Barry’s voice gets muffled, like he’s put his hand over the phone. “Yes, Iris, they’re talking about you – no, you don’t – hey! Don’t snatch the –”

“So what’s the question?” Iris asks.

“Marriage vows surviving resurrection,” Mick says. “Is remarrying bigamy? Do we gotta get married again?”

“Huh. Good question. I’ll ask a lawyer. I think Laurel got resurrected, she can look it up...”

“Ask him what happens if you end up married or divorced ‘cause the timeline shifted, too,” Len adds.

Barry’s voice is audible in the background, going “Hey! Cheap shot!”

The television makes a noise.

“Hey, are you watching Voltron, too?” Iris asks.

“Yeah – actually, while we have you on the line, we have this idea about Ratigan and McSnurtle…also, do you think Cisco would agree to adopt a flying squirrel as a pet?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re drunk. _Extremely_ drunk. 

In fairness, they just saved the world _and_ pulled off an epic heist at the same time, with the heroes none the wiser. 

The mayor himself just thanked them and shook their hands.

Len had shaken back, smiling the smile of someone who _totally_ did not have a solid three million in jewels and banknotes sitting in the trunk of his (stolen) car less than ten yards away. Mick had kept his expression neutral.

And then they’d made it home and started laughing hysterically, and then they’d broken out the high-end liquor they kept for celebrations. 

So, really, they were totally justified in being drunk.

“The tux looks awesome,” Mick slurs, though not too much. He lifts his glass – they were drinking shots of whiskey out of glasses, since _someone_ forgot to stock this place up with shot glasses and Len gets all persnickety about drinking out of a bottle after enough rounds – and tips it slightly at Ratigan. “Well done, Len.”

“Got lots of training making doll’s clothing for Lisa,” Len replies. He’s not slurring, but he keeps swaying like he’s not sure where the ground is. “She always wanted some more, and I couldn’t risk stealing all of ‘em – they watch for shoplifters in stores like that – so I ended up making ‘em myself. Needed to learn to sew to fix _our_ clothing anyway.”

“Ratigan’s not a doll.”

“Nah. He’s _better_. Is it a he?”

“Does it matter?”

“True. Well, here’s to you, Ratigan,” Len says, straightening up and lifting his glass. “To Ratigan!”

“To Ratigan!” Mick echoes.

They grin soppily at each other. 

“ _The world’s greatest criminal mind!_ ”


End file.
